


Unspoken

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drama, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-26
Updated: 2006-06-25
Packaged: 2018-09-03 12:00:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8712988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: A new case brings some issues between Sam and Dean into focus.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Unspoken  
  
Author: Raina  
Archive: Nutters, inc.  
Paring: Sam/Dean  
Rating: Adult  
Disclaimer: All things Supernatural belong to Kripke, the WB, etc. None of it belongs to me, which should be obvious given that neither of the boys is currently chained in our bedroom.  
Feedback: Always appreciated.  
Summary: A new case brings some issues between Sam and Dean into focus.  
Warning: Explicit Wincest. Though I suspect that for most of you, that's an enticement more than a warning :-)  
  
Thank yous: Thank you [ ](http://cathybites.livejournal.com/profile)[**cathybites**](http://cathybites.livejournal.com/) for the beta, [ ](http://duchess-of-hell.livejournal.com/profile)[**duchess_of_hell**](http://duchess-of-hell.livejournal.com/) for the concrit and [ ](http://lea-ndra.livejournal.com/profile)[**lea_ndra**](http://lea-ndra.livejournal.com/) for the input while writing.  
  
*-*  
  
It's easy to forget sometimes, to just let himself drift. When the sun burns into the windows of the Impala, hard guitar riffs blaring from the speaker and Dean going on about something inconsequential, it's easy to be content, to feel some semblance of peace. Easy to relax when Dean's attention is fixed on the road, not on Sam, not boring into him, measuring his every word and movement against some unreachable standard in his head, so much like Dad. The spectral presence of their father seems to follow them, judgementally watching, and no salt keeps this spirit from coming between them again and again.   
  
They've been on the road for a few hours now. It's hot, Sam's shirt is sticking to his back, and his entire body seems to have fused with the car seat. They've given up talking; the music's too loud on purpose to save them the energy and conflict-potential of speech. Sam can feel that Dean's relaxed through the leisurely vibrations of the Impala; the car seems to pick up on Dean's moods better than Sam is able to. It's rare that Dean isn't wired as if he was under high voltage; the stress of their job and the many unanswered questions wear on them both, and they both show it differently. Dean never allows the strain to show. Instead he compensates by wild driving, wild running, wild fighting, and wild fucking. He can go to bed without showing so much as a twitch of muscle, and two hours later Sam wakes up with Dean in his bed, desperately clutching at him as if he was the only thing that's real, and in the morning Sam counts the bruises Dean's lips have left, and Dean acts like nothing ever happened. Denial. Repression. Silence. It's the Winchester way.   
  
Most of the time, and especially right now, he's more than willing to forget, and concentrate on the pleasant numbness the heat has brought. They're leaving behind the wasteland of southern California and entering the woods further north, and still they're drifting through this half-silence of blaring music and too much sun. Shadows fall like cool, caressing fingers over the car.   
  
They've been driving for what seems an eternity in the heat they seem to carry with them from the south of the state, and the Impala seems to think that it could do with a bit of a cool-off and Sam quite agrees. So when they see the glistening of water through the trees, Dean turns the car into the dirty lane leading to a tiny lake. Sighing with relief, Sam gets out of the car almost before Dean parks it under the shade of a tree. Dean's out as well as soon as the motor is off and they race each other to the water, losing clothes as they go, until at last they jump into the cool, endlessly refreshing water wearing no more than boxers.   
  
For a few mindlessly pleasurable strokes, Sam's world consists of cool water, rushing in his ears and a physically tangible relief from the heat. The pleasant numbness of his limbs gives way to a burst of sensation, the prickling of little oxygen bubbles created by his movements that burst on his skin feels like life is returning in full force to his body.  
  
He twists through the water, enjoying the exertion of the swim, the stretch of muscles, the pumping of his heart, the outburst of energy he would've sworn he didn't have ten minutes ago, the immediate physicality of it. He feels entirely aware of his body, something he normally only feels on the full adrenaline burst of hunting, or when he pushes his body farther than it will go in exercise. It's a feeling very close to sex, only it doesn't make his skin feel too small to contain him.  
  
He finally rests to catch his breath, and the minute he stops swimming, Dean is on him, dunking his head under the water. Sam laughs, a spontaneous sound surprising even to himself, and Dean smiles at him brightly, like he used to do when they were younger and nothing had been broken between them yet. Sam retaliates for the dunking and they wrestle, laughing. Sam loses, but he does so good-naturedly and Dean doesn't rub it in, doesn't test him or berate him. He just grins and wordlessly accepts the splash of water he gets into his face in return.   
  
They swim quietly for a while, and Sam lets himself drift on his back, staring into the sky, feeling like a tiny, insignificant speck beneath the vastness of blue, and enjoying it.  
  
In moments like that, in the weightlessness of water, the sun making his limbs heavy, it's not so difficult to feel normal. Regular. Innocent - not that he even really knows what that is. He can close his eyes and not see Jessica, not imagine his mother in her place over his bed. He can forget for a while how thoroughly _twisted_ his life has become, how anything and everything normal has disappeared, has been completely consumed with the fire that killed Jessica and swallowed up every physical reminder of her.   
Sometimes he wishes he could have taken at least a picture of the two of them, or the football jersey she gave him in their early days when she didn't know yet that he played basketball. But in a way, the fire made leaving that much easier, because there wasn't anything left to keep him there, and the lack of memorabilia sometimes makes him wonder whether his life with Jess, his life in Stanford for that matter, has really happened and wasn't just a fever dream and all there's ever been to his life was the hunting. The family business.   
  
Thoughts flow in and out of his head like the water swashing against his ears. Random images of no great significance come and go as Sam gazes into the sky. The sun is slowly setting, disappearing behind the trees. He turns his head and looks for Dean, who's already left the water and is changing into dry boxers. He turns his eyes back to the sky, but the image still flickers in front of his retina like imprints of light, wet skin hit by the last rays of evening sunlight. It does something to his stomach he doesn't want to contemplate, and he decides to get out of the water as well.   
  
He turns to the shore and Dean's sitting on the Impala's hood, baggy jeans hanging halfway over his feet, bare chest gleaming with errant drops of water. He's looking at Sam, and their eyes meet briefly. When Sam comes out of the water, Dean throws him a towel and smiles, an odd smile, all edges and indiscernible meanings. "Come on, dry off, I'm hungry and we should try to get to Henley before dark," he says, gesturing vaguely at the car.  
  
They get into the car, Dean turns on the engine, and from the first hum vibrating through the seats, Sam feels the tension returning. Brief holiday over, they're on the job again. Next stop, Henley, California. Five mysterious deadly attacks during the last year. The Impala gets them back on the road, and Sam's stomach goes back to its standard acidy tension. He can smell it in the air. This job won't be pretty at all.  
  
*-*  
  
They arrive in Henley just after dark. They both immediately notice the hush of fear lying over the town. There's nobody around to ask for directions to the town's only hotel, so they follow the plan Sam downloaded to his PDA.   
  
"Cosy, eh?" Dean asks sarcastically, pointing at the closed shop windows and 'Out of business' signs on restaurants.  
  
Sam nods. "People are afraid to go out after dark."  
  
Frowning, Dean points at a sign on a path that leads to the woods that says 'Danger - Do not enter after sundown'. "You think they know somethin' we don't?"  
  
"Entirely possible. Some local legend nobody's told the papers about for fear of sounding crazy. The hotel's that way, by the way," Sam answers, pointing left just as Dean's about to turn right.   
  
"I know, I know, I was just enjoying the scenery," Dean answers, a smile in his voice.  
  
Sam smirks. "Smartass."  
  
"Know-it-all."  
  
"Will you just drive? I'm starving."  
  
Dean gives him an ironic smile. "Well, good luck finding a place that's open."  
  
*-*  
  
Fortunately, the hotel has a restaurant attached. The owner, a friendly, motherly woman, checks them in and upon learning that they're journalists investigating the recent murders, disclaims any knowledge but warns them not to go into the woods at night.  
  
They find their room, which is clean and friendly, and unload their luggage. They each pocket a gun before going down to dinner in the restaurant, which is unsurprisingly almost empty. They sit as far away as possible from the other two customers, uncomfortable-looking tourists, and after ordering Sam gets out the laptop. "So, let's review. Five attacks during the last year, all at night, two in the summer, one in autumn, one around Christmas and one just a few weeks ago. Victims: two of them were hikers out in the woods after dark, one was a biologist getting specimens of nocturnal bugs, the fourth attack had two victims, a pair of tourists who were..."  
  
"Doin' the dirty out in the woods?" Dean supplies. "I can think of worse ways to go."  
  
Sam looks at him skeptically. "The girl's leg was missing, and the guy's guts were spilled all over the ground."  
  
"Well, aside from that part," Dean admits, then picks up his newly arrived burger and bites into it with relish. "What about the fifth attack?" he asks around a mouthful of food.  
  
Sam shakes his head. "You're a pig. Anyway, the victim of the fifth attack was a ranger who'd received an emergency phone call from a woman whose car gave out on the road. The woman was inside the car when the ranger was attacked. That's probably what saved her. She's a local. According to this article," he pointed at the newspaper article open on his screen, "she saw the ranger approach, then something she couldn't see clearly dragged him off into the woods. She didn't see anything else."  
  
"So what're we dealing with here? Wendigo? Black Dog?" Dean asks, munching fries.  
  
Sam shrugs and picks up his knife and fork to attack his steak. "What worries me is that the attacks only take place at night. And I'll have to check with a calendar, but the attacks all seem to take place near the end of a month."  
  
Dean frowns. "But not every month, and not even every second month, or every third month. It can't be a creature on a regular cycle."  
  
Sam pushes his plate aside and opens his laptop again, pulling up a website with a lunar calendar. "Okay, bad news. Look at this," he says and turns the laptop around.  
  
Dean looks at the screen and groans. "Oh, shit, not that crap again."  
  
Sam makes a face. "It doesn't explain the gaps in the attacks, but five times is too often to be accidental. And how many creatures do you know that are drawn out by the full moon?"  
  
"One," Dean answers. "Fuck, I hate werewolves."  
  
*-*  
  
It's still early but the moon is four days from being full and besides, they've been on the road all day, so they decide to call it a night. Sam showers, then climbs into the warm bed and turns towards Dean, who's lying on his bed fully clothed, flipping randomly through TV channels. The light reflects warmly off the reddish wooden panelling of the room, and Sam feels surprisingly comfortable. It's quiet here, and oddly peaceful for the dangerous creature lurking in the woods. Maybe Sam feels safe because he knows more than the locals. Maybe he's gotten too used to danger. Or maybe it's because he knows Dean won't let any harm come to him. The flickering light from the TV illuminates Dean's face in different colours, make his eyes seem at times blue, at times brownish from the reflected light. Sam smiles. "Dean?"  
  
Dean looks over, his attention not entirely on Sam as he continues channel-flipping. "Yeah?"  
  
It occurs to Sam that he doesn't know what he wanted to say, that really all he wanted was to look at Dean's eyes for a moment, to have his attention. "Nothing."  
  
Smiling, Dean turns off the TV. "Get some sleep. Gun on the nightstand?"  
  
Sam smirks. "Yes, grandma, and I brushed my teeth and combed my hair."  
  
"Hey, no need to give me a play-by-play, you'll thank me for the precautions when the big, bad wolf breaks down the door," Dean answers, all smooth, slick surface, unruffled. Sometimes Sam hates Dean for his ability to let almost anything and everything just slide off him like water and leave no outward trace. His own face in the mirror every morning shows little emotion but the strain of control.  
  
"Dean, it's not the full moon."  
  
Dean gets up and rummages through his bag, taking out a knife and a gun and depositing the one under his pillow and the other on his nightstand. "You never know what's out there."  
  
Sam smiles humourlessly. "You're _so_ reassuring."  
  
*-*  
  
The illuminated numbers on his alarm clock show that it's 2 am when Sam awakes to a warm hand on his stomach and warm breath ghosting over his face. He's painfully hard and Dean's body is all heat and skin pressed to his side. It's so dark that he can't see anything but the alarm clock's light reflected in Dean's eyes. For a moment, neither of them moves, they just stare into each others' eyes. Sam wants to say something, but he doesn't, he never does. Instead, he does what he always does, grips Dean's hair and pulls him down for a hard, demanding kiss.   
  
Galvanized by the sudden, intense contact, Sam grabs Dean's hips with his hands, rolls them so that Sam is on top of him. Thoughts drown in hot kisses, tongue and teeth and hands grasping, and Dean's fingers digging into Sam's ass, their cocks hard between their bodies.  
  
They almost tussle for control, hands grasping at any body parts they can reach, scratching over skin, licking, biting, kissing, until Sam lands on top and holds Dean's arms down with an iron grip. Dean doesn't try to shake Sam off, but grinds his hips into Sam's, their cocks rubbing against each other, the friction driving Sam almost insane with want.   
  
Releasing Dean's arms, he spits into his hand and wraps it around Dean's cock, strokes it quickly, roughly, lubricating it with saliva and the precome leaking from the tip. Slowly, holding on to whatever part of Dean he can get his hands on, he lowers himself on Dean's cock, shuddering as mingled pleasure and pain split through his body, making him instantly aware of just what he's doing, and in the next instant forcing everything out of his awareness that isn't Dean's hands on him, Dean's cock inside of him, Dean's panting breath under him. He's tempted to turn on the light and see Dean's face, see him stripped of all defences, willingly in Sam's hands, at Sam's pleasure and the source of it. Only he doesn't, because he's afraid to see what he always sees, the smooth mask in place, and he's afraid of what Dean might see, Sam broken open to take out whatever he wants.   
  
Slowly, he begins to move, and the intensity of the sensation, of smell and sound, drowns his mind in the white noise of pleasure, of Dean's breathy moan, the wet, grinding sound of flesh against flesh, Dean's hand stroking over his cock. Movement becomes more frantic, Dean takes more initiative now, grabs onto Sam's hip with one hand, holds tight as he fucks Sam. It's rough, almost violent, and Sam feels pain where bruises will be, but it's exactly what he needs. He bites his lips to keep from panting his brother's name, to speak would break the moment. Sam feels his orgasm approaching with giant steps, rushing up his spine, leaving goosebumps, but he holds back for a moment to lean down and catch Dean's lips in a kiss, wanting to taste his brother's moans before it's over. Apparently surprised by the kiss, Dean gasps into Sam's mouth, kissing him back fiercely, squeezing and rubbing his cock more energetically, and Sam comes with a deep, full-body shudder, muscles spasming he spills over Dean's hand and stomach, comes to lie on Dean's chest, panting and sweaty. Dean grabs onto his hips and thrusts once, twice, then comes as well, trying and not quite succeeding to be quiet, the stifled moan audible through the teeth biting lips, or so Sam supposes.   
  
They lie there panting in total darkness. Sam rolls off and closes his eyes. It's 2.30 am.   
  
*-*  
  
"Morning, sunshine," Dean says near his ear, and Sam groans. His backside feels sore, and he's sweaty and sticky. Opening his eyes, he sees that Dean is already fully dressed and looks fresh.   
  
"Why didn't you wake me?" Sam murmurs, slowly getting up, keeping his groin covered, where he feels semen still stuck in his pubic hairs.   
  
Dean shrugs. "Looked like you could use the sleep. Come on, get dressed and let's go to breakfast."  
  
Sam nods slowly, watching Dean rummage around the room to get some things. When he reaches over to get the gun from Sam's nightstand, Sam notices something on his forearm. He grabs Dean's wrist and stops him mid-movement, shoves the sleeve of Dean's jacket away. Blackish-blue marks the size of fingers.   
  
Sam swallows. "Dean, I..."  
  
Dean snatches his hand away and pushes the sleeve down instantly. "It's nothing."  
  
Getting up from the bed, Sam takes a step towards Dean. "But Dean..."  
  
Holding up his hand, Dean looks anywhere but at Sam as he says, his tone briskly sharp, "I said it's nothing." Sam can see his chest heaving a deep breath, then Dean looks up, once more unruffled, smooth. "Come on, get dressed, I'm hungry."  
  
"Fine," Sam answers, emotion draining away. Of course. They don't talk. Especially not about this. Never about this.   
  
In the bathroom mirror he sees a small bruise on his hip and the fading circles under his expressionless eyes. He slept without nightmares last night.  
  
*-*  
  
"You know, the gaps between the attacks might not actually mean anything," Dean says, leisurely chewing through his big plate full of eggs and bacon.  
  
Sam, who's been poring over a calendar and ignoring his breakfast, looks up, frowning. "What do you mean?"  
  
"Might just be that our werewolf didn't find anybody to attack that night."  
  
"Or attacked somewhere else and nobody made the connection," Sam adds.   
  
"Which makes this a waste of time," Dean says, snatching away Sam's calendar. "You gonna eat that?" He points at Sam's eggs.   
  
Sam grins. "As a matter of fact, I am," he says, reaching for the tabasco and distributing it generously over his eggs.  
  
Dean makes a face. "You're the only person I know who does that. Freak."  
  
Snorting, Sam starts to eat. "Greedy bastard."  
*-*  
  
First stop, library. Research. Dean goes off to look at old newspapers while Sam looks through town records for unusual occurrences.   
  
The upper layers of his mind are busy with documents, scanning them for important details, making the occasional note, leaving his fancy free to ramble.  
  
_Freak_. So ironic coming from Dean. He, of course, means nothing by it, regards it as a compliment even. Dean scorns the normality Sam craves.   
  
Sam still remembers exactly the moment when he realised how strange his life is. How different he is and always will be.  
  
In his first year in elementary school, the teacher let each of them make ornaments for the school Christmas tree. The other kids made bunnies, horses, stars, Santas. Sam made a crucifix, a pentagram and a few other protective ornaments. The school psychologist talked to him, then to his dad, and then to child protective services, but they saw no reason to intervene, since Sam was well-fed, well-clothed and seemed to be in every other respect than his odd taste in Christmas tree ornaments an entirely normal child.   
  
In retrospect Sam knows that it wasn't that big a deal. But it made him realise that other children didn't wear a pentagram necklace under their shirts. It also made him realise that none of his classmates drew salt circles around their beds when they went to sleep at night. None of their fathers brought them to school every morning with a gun loaded and ready.   
Most of them knew their mothers, and none of them ever dreamed of violent deaths they'd only heard about.  
  
Suddenly, from one day to the other, Sam saw himself as different, as weird, as having a secret, and a heavy one at that. From that moment on, he felt like his head was too big for his six-year old body. He watched the boys play hide-and-seek in dark corners and wondered at their carelessness when they called him a weirdo and laughed at his warnings of malevolent ghosts, wondered why their lives weren't immersed in constant vigilance and fear.   
  
It took until high school for the other kids to find his weirdness entertaining, and the gun his Dad insisted he carry everywhere cool instead of scary. In high school, his erratic attendance record, the dark shadows under his eyes, and the strange smells were attributed to a wild party lifestyle, not to his Dad's obsession. The kids were fascinated by the seeming contradiction between his lifestyle and his excellent grades, but his intense earnestness, unwillingness to talk about himself, and his inability to party and play with them made them wary of him.   
  
And while the entire school talked about Sam, his black eyes, and excellent grades, nobody seemed to pay Dean any mind. Child protective services never came because of Dean. The other kids thought he was cool; they revered his leather jacket, his car, his cocky attitude, but he didn't seem to care. He rarely ever went to school and nobody cared. Nobody seemed to think that Dean was weird. A rebel, yes. Difficult kid, surely. But not a freak.  
  
Dean maintains an easy, seemingly comfortable distance, while Sam entangles himself in lies while pretending to be normal. Even in Stanford, even with Jessica, it had been impossible to forget what he is; he could only lock it away for a while.  
  
It's been like this for as long as Sam can think back. Maybe Dean can just hide it better. Maybe it's because Dean never really had any close friends, nor seemed to want any. Or maybe there's just something... off about Sam. Something other than the hunting of evil, the dead mother and girlfriend. It must be the reason that sometimes he just knows stuff. That some spirits seem to call to him, come to him in his dreams. That he seems to bring out the worst in people, their innermost demons and desires, things they're so ashamed of that they never say them aloud.   
  
It comes to him more and more often these days that when people call him a freak, maybe they're right.   
  
A warning goes off in his head and he snaps to attention a second before a hand lands on his shoulder. He looks up to find Dean smirking at him, self-satisfied. "Come look at what I found."  
  
Sam follows Dean to the newspaper room. "So according to a couple of articles I found," Dean's explaining while they make their way through the library, "there were lots of these attacks during the late eighties and early nineties. It nearly drove the town to bankruptcy."  
  
"Judging from the town records, before that time, Henley had a pretty healthy small tourism business with the lake and the forest, hikers, swimmers, campers and the like, but I guess with the attacks, tourists stayed away, and all the restaurants and shops went out of business," Sam muses.  
  
Nodding, Dean continues, "Exactly. So anyway, from what I gathered, the attacks stop in 1995, suddenly, without any apparent reason."  
  
Sam shrugs. "Maybe the werewolf moved away and is back now?"  
  
They've reached the table where Dean's working. Smirking, Dean holds up the article. "I don't think so."  
  
Sam looks at the headline. 'Sole Survivor In Vicious Beast Attack'. "There was a survivor?"  
  
"Yes, Jason Schwartz, a local, he was eight at the time. Survived with nothing but a bite wound to the shoulder," Dean supplies.  
  
Looking at the picture of the kid, Sam sighs. "Let's find out more about Jason, then."  
  
*-*  
  
"Before these attacks started again, we'd just started to recover our good name. And now look around." Mrs. Harris, their landlady, sighs and takes a sip of her coffee. "Well, let's look on the bright side, in the old days, I would've been too busy during spring break to have coffee with two charming boys like you in the middle of the day."  
  
The lounge is quiet; they're two of five guests in the hotel. "You say that nobody ever saw the animal," Sam asks, "not even the boy who survived the attack?"  
  
Mrs. Harris shrugs. "He said he didn't remember anything about the attack. He was just a small child, and so terrified. Nobody wanted to pressure him. And anyway, it all stopped soon after that."  
  
"Did Jason ever say anything later?" Dean asks, munching on a cookie. Sam's stomach grumbles loudly, and Dean looks at him sideways, then hands him a cookie, smirking.   
  
Smiling at their interaction, Mrs. Harris answers the question. "Not that I know of, and I don't see how I wouldn't know. Things have a way of getting around here. I don't think anybody ever asked Jason, though. His parents were so protective of him, God rest their souls."  
  
Sam can almost hear the simultaneous 'click' go off in his and Dean's head. "When did his parents die?" Sam asks.   
  
"Last June," Mrs. Harris says, clearly confused.  
  
"And does Jason still live here?" Dean asks without missing a beat.  
  
Mrs. Harris nods. "Yes, he lives in their old house, but he's off to college most of the time."  
  
Sam and Dean exchange a long look. "And he only comes home on the holidays," Sam says, and simultaneously, they rise.   
  
"Thank you very much, Mrs. Harris. We should check in with the office," Dean lies smoothly, and together they make their exit. Once they're out of the room, Dean murmurs, "I think our man Jason deserves a more thorough examination."  
  
*-*  
  
"I checked the dates of the attacks with college breaks. Matches exactly," Sam says over his shoulder when the bathroom door opens and Dean comes out of the shower.   
  
"Makes sense," Dean answers. "So about 20 years ago a werewolf moves into the woods and eats some tourists. He bites a kid and turns him into a werewolf. The old werewolf dies or goes away, the attacks stop. But now that Jason's old enough, the attacks start again."  
  
Sam turns around, and for a moment he forgets what he wanted to say. Dean's wearing nothing but a towel around his lean hips, and his skin glistens warmly in the lamplight. It's nothing Sam hasn't seen before hundreds of times, except for the teeth-shaped bruise under Dean's right nipple.   
  
Dean frowns at him. "Sammy, are you all right?"  
  
Sam closes his mouth, aware that he's staring. There's something... unclassifiable about that bruise, and the knowledge that _he_ put it there. Shaking his head, he stammers, "Yeah, I'm- sorry, what?"  
  
But Dean isn't listening, he's followed Sam's gaze and is staring at his chest, at the mark. Sam tries to say something, but no words come as Dean lifts his head and looks at him, meeting his eyes, daring words to come. Sam's throat feels constricted, his heart is pounding, the room seems smaller than before, and it's much hotter. There's something in Dean's eyes, something primal. Something forcefully intense. Something Sam realizes he wants, even with the lights on.  
  
Dean looks away, and a feeling of intense, almost physical, relief floods Sam, and at the same time he feels like a cavity has opened in his chest.   
  
He dimly notices that Dean is hastily putting on some clothes and shoes. "Where are you going?"  
  
Dean looks up from pulling on his boots. "For a walk."  
  
"Dean, it's raining."  
  
Always the smooth bastard, Dean gives Sam a slick little smile. "I won't melt." He grabs his jacket and is gone.  
 


	2. Chapter 2

*-*  
  
The shower is hot, almost scorching Sam's skin. The heat feels good, cleansing, and the noise of the water gives him backdrop to think.  
  
People who don't know Dean might think him insensitive, not the type to admit to any emotion, not the type to confide in. Which is true, in a way, because Dean isn't the type to express his emotions in words. He is, however, one of the world's greatest touchers, and, Sam knows this, one of the most emotional, one of the most caring people alive. Dean doesn't bother with inessentials, he doesn't pull any punches, but when the chips are down, he's there, but he lets his body do the talking.  
  
That's how it started, innocently enough. Some cold hotel room in Dayton. Poltergeist. Easy case, but physically exhausting, and Sam, who hadn't been sleeping well, finally cracked. He woke from a nightmare one night, sobbing uncontrollably, unable to shake the images from his dream, the memories. Jess, their mother, flames, Dean, blood, a dark, heavy sense of foreboding, ice-cold fear that shook Sam's entire body. It had to happen sooner or later, he knows that now. Post-traumatic stress, exhaustion, belated grief reaction - it's a wonder he lasted that long.   
  
Strong hands holding his shaking limbs in place, smoothing hair back from his sweaty brow. Strong arms wrapping around his body, warmth thawing away the block of icy fear that seemed to have closed around his heart. Warm body pressed to his, no words, no lights, but knowledge, reassurance, memories of being kids and sharing a bed, of being completely safe with Dean. Slowly, the shaking had faded, then stopped, and then the tears came, and Sam was sobbing helplessly in Dean's arms, finally allowing himself to acknowledge what he'd lost: Jessica, their apartment, their memories, the neat little life they'd built for themselves, his last chance at a normal life, all gone, and all his fault. Nothing seemed certain anymore. Nothing except Dean, who'd been there to pull him out of the flames, once more. Sam held on to Dean, and Dean held on to Sam just as tightly. No words were exchanged, but the intensity of his emotions, and the heat of Dean's physical presence had hit Sam in the gut, had made him dizzy. He didn't know how it happened, exactly, but one moment they were holding each other, and the next moment they were kissing, clutching at each other as if they were drowning, and the next moment, it seemed, they were humping each other, rubbing against each other frantically, desperately, and the next moment, it was over, and in the morning, Dean didn't mention it, and for a while, Sam was uncertain whether he'd not dreamed it.  
  
But a few nights later he woke up and Dean was in his bed, waking him from a nightmare. And out of reflex, Sam kissed him. And so it went.  
  
They don't talk about it, not ever. They never turn on the lights, they never even allude to what happens at night, and in the morning, Dean always lies in his own bed. They never touch in an unbrotherly fashion in daylight, and except for their silent encounters between midnight and dawn one could almost think that nothing's changed. It's a precarious balance he doesn't fool himself will last, but so far it has. In moments of lucidity he doesn't allow himself often, Sam feels guilty, twisted, but even now while he thinks how sick this is, his hand is on his cock and he jerks himself off quickly, roughly, and comes thinking of the bitemark on Dean's skin.   
  
*-*  
  
Two cups of coffee are slowly growing cold on the dashboard of the Impala. Sam, who's watching Jason Schwartz through the local convenience store windows, is almost blind with boredom. "He looks normal enough," he muses, more to himself. "Probably picking up some extra cash during the holidays."  
  
Dean doesn't react, mainly because he doesn't pay the slightest attention to either Sam or Jason; he's absorbed in the NRA magazine.  
  
Sam sighs. They've been here since morning and have learned nothing except that Jason is a good store clerk. He turns to Dean. "What're you reading, anyway?"  
  
Dean looks up from the magazine. "There's this guy who produces custom-made bullets out of any material imaginable. The guy who made our silver bullets went out of business and I figure that more likely than not we'll have to restock our supply after this case."  
  
The implications of Dean's words make Sam uncomfortable. "I don't think shooting him is the ideal solution."  
  
Frowning, Dean gives him his patented are-you-nuts-kid-brother look. "And what do you suggest we do instead, bore him to death? 'Cuz if that's the strategy, it's working pretty well on me right now."  
  
"Hear me out before you judge," Sam says, turning all his attention on his brother. "We're kind of assuming that the attacks started only last year because Jason reached maturity. But they coincide so neatly with his parents' death that I think there could be another possibility. What if Jason doesn't even _know_ that he's a werewolf? His parents apparently kept him locked up during full moon, and maybe he's one of the werewolves who don't remember what they did in wolf form the morning after."  
  
"It's possible," Dean concedes. "I mean, he's got strong local ties, it makes no sense to endanger his friends and family if he can easily prevent it. On the other hand, he must've attacked some people at college. He must be pretty stupid not to put two and two together."  
  
Sam shrugs. "I checked up on that. He goes to college in Colorado, and yes, there have been some attacks near his campus, but they were all attributed to bears, which isn't uncommon in the area."  
  
"When did you do that, last night? Have you slept at all?"  
  
Shrugging again, Sam admits, "Not much." In truth, he was too wired to sleep. Too caught up in the betrayals of his own thoughts, which insisted on straying to bite marks and Dean's naked chest, to heated breath on his face and slick skin against his. He lay awake for a long time, wondering whether Dean would come to his bed, hoping he would, wanting him to. It's stupid of him, given what they do at night, but he's never actually allowed himself to consider whether he desires Dean in the light of day, and so the answer arrived before the question in a resounding yes that had left him shaken, edgy. So he got up, powered up the laptop and did some research, then went out for a run until he was too tired for thought.  
  
He can feel Dean's worried gaze on him, and for a few moments, he allows himself to bask in the intensity of Dean's attention. If he wants to, Dean can make anybody feel as if they're the centre of the known universe. It's something Sam's always loved about Dean, and it's something he realises now he desires as well. Looking over at Dean, he gives his brother a half-smile. "I'm all right."  
  
Dean sighs. "If you say so. Anyway, to get back to my original point, this," he gestures at the supermarket, "is pointless."   
  
"Totally," Sam agrees. "So what's our next step?"  
  
Dean shrugs. "Find out where he hangs out in the evening and get to know him in an informal setting."  
  
"Like a bar?" Sam asks, looking at Dean with a mixture of suspicion and amusement. "And of course you want to go there strictly for business purposes."  
  
Dean looks at Sam, a predatory gleam in his eyes, grinning. "Strictly."  
  
*-*  
  
Of course, almost as soon as they finish their food, Dean hits the pool table. Sam tries to look contemptuous, but admittedly they need the money, and it's not like Dean steals from anybody. People who are stupid or cocky enough to play pool for large sums of money have it coming anyway in some sense. So instead of expending the energy of being judgemental, Sam watches Dean play some local kids for a couple of bucks to get the stakes up. Dean puts on an attitude that's only a little exaggerated from his usual cocky self-confidence, and plays far worse than he's capable of to lure the better players into thinking that they can beat him and win the money he's just taken off the kids for themselves. Of course, Dean will beat them. He's played since he was 13 - their father taught them the game as a hand-eye-coordination exercise. It was one of the few recreational activities he approved of because it was good training for aim and concentration. How typical of Dean to excel at something their father approves of, and to like it, too. Sam was good at a lot of stuff their father wanted them to learn, but he liked very little of it. Maybe that's the reason why Dean always got along better with Dad; they're a lot alike in a lot of ways. And very different in others.  
  
Dean splits, sinking three balls in the process, and grins at Sam, winking. He's clearly enjoying himself, and Sam smiles back automatically. Dean's in his element, absorbed. Sam figures that Dean could easily have played professionally. In fact Sam's pretty sure that Dean could have done anything he set his mind to; he's intelligent, inquisitive, single-mindedly and passionately committed to what he does and physically in excellent shape. He would've made an excellent cop, for example.   
  
Smiling, Sam drifts off into what he did too often during their childhood, imagining the might-have-been. He imagines Dean as a country sheriff, with plenty of outdoor activity. Automatically, he inserts himself into the fantasy - a DA, maybe, or a small-town lawyer representing local business against big corporations. They'd maybe have a house with a big garden, maybe some horses. A few dogs, the kind they always wanted and could never have when they were children. Peace and quiet, stability. He wonders whether Dean ever has these fantasies. And if he'd believe Sam if he told him that the one thing Sam missed in Stanford was Dean. The one thing he regretted.   
  
"Earth to Sammy," Dean murmurs into his ear, and Sam almost jumps out of his skin. Dean sits down next to him and starts to count his cash gleefully. "You could at least pretend to be impressed, you know," he says cheerfully. He's clearly buzzed on success. "Three more nights of a roof over our heads and food on the table. Damn, I'm good."  
  
Sam smiles. "Yes, you are." There's warmth in his stomach, comfortable and safe.   
  
Dean throws an arm around his shoulder and leans against him heavily. "Thanks, man. It's nice to be appreciated," he says, giving Sam one of his cocky, too-hot-to-be-alive grins and a look that Sam thinks could easily be taken as flirty. Clearly Dean had one or two beers while playing.   
  
From one second to the other, the grin vanishes, and Dean's entire body seems to move into alert mode. Sam can feel muscles tensing where Dean leans against him. "Our boy's here."  
  
Sam turns around, also shifting to alert mode. Jason has just entered with a couple of his friends and the hair on the back of Sam's neck starts to prickle. There's... something about this boy. Even in the clamour of the bar it's apparent that he moves almost soundlessly. He's laughing and joking with his friends, three guys and two very pretty girls who move around him, like a pack, Sam thinks, but shakes off the disjointed thought as he and Dean get up simultaneously to move over to the group.  
  
*-*  
  
"So I gather this isn't exactly Partytown Central," Sam states the obvious, and Jamie, one of the girls who came in with Jason, smiles.   
  
"Understatement of the decade. This," her sweeping gesture encompasses the entire bar, "is it, basically, on the nightlife front. Not that many people go out after dark anyway."  
  
"Yeah, we heard about these weird attacks," Sam says, trying to strike the right balance between curiosity and nonchalance. They went for the college students disguise this time, told Jason and his friends that they're doing some research on local history.  
  
Jamie nods. "It's been pretty bad for the last year or so. We're just hoping it'll pass, like it did last time."  
  
A cheer goes up from behind them, and they both turn to the pool table, where Dean and Jason are playing a seemingly closely contested game under the eyes of Jason's friends and some locals. Jamie smiles. "It's good to see Jason smile again. He's such a nice guy and he's had such a rough year."  
  
"He seems to be a neat guy," Sam casually assents, hoping to draw out more details without having to ask for them.   
  
Nodding, Jamie reaches for her drink. "He is. Smart, too. Finished high school even through the situation with his parents. He was so determined to get out of here, and now he's done it. Still, doesn't seem to make him very happy. It's a pity, you know, he's one of the few really decent guys I know." Smiling self-consciously, she brushes her hair out of her face. "So how about you and your brother? You get along well?"  
  
Sam almost laughs at the impossibility of the question. "Depends on what you define as 'well'." He shrugs. "I guess we're pretty good," he finally says, and as he speaks the words, he realises that it's actually mostly true.   
  
Another cheer from the crowd goes up and the two of them turn just in time to see Dean make a gesture of indecent triumph.   
  
Sam nods in the direction of the pool table. "You want to go watch?"  
  
Jamie gives Sam a smile. "I like it better over here. Your brother's good. I've never seen anyone hold out against Jason for this long."   
  
Sam catches Dean's eyes over the crowd and smiles. "Yeah, he... likes to play."  
  
"And you, do you like to play?" Jamie asks, and it's so obvious a come-on, so unsubtle a pass, that Sam's taken aback, speechless with surprise. Jamie notices and pursues. "Why don't the two of us let the others have fun playing pool and go grab a cup of coffee?" She smiles at him and touches his hand, flips her hair.   
  
Her hand on his is soft, small and warm, and her clothes let him determine enough about her body that he can guess that she's soft and warm in other places, too. Her perfume is subtle, but noticeable, and she's standing pretty close to him. It affects him more strongly than he thought it would; everything about her is such a stark contrast to hard angles, rough palms and harsh breathing in the darkness. He tries to lie to himself and say that he's not tempted, not interested, and it's half true. Crazy, unhealthy things in the darkness of night and this sane and normal girl in bright lamplight. There's something incredibly odd about the way his eyes automatically stray to the pool table, where Dean is watching them, eyes unreadably flinty, his face a chiselled perfection of a smooth mask. But he's watching. Watching Sam, not the girl. Not the game of pool. Jason has to nudge him that it's his turn, and with his attention distracted, Sam feels that he can breathe again.   
  
Sam knows he's one step away from a fork in the road. Path one, say yes to Jamie and possibly have sex with a practical stranger. Path two, give in to the pull in his guts and say no, with all the packaged reasons in his head, with the feel of gun-calloused hands in his mind.   
  
He smiles. "Thanks, but Dean and I have a hell of a day tomorrow."  
  
Jamie takes it like a sport. "Well, perhaps some other time," she says, her smile losing about half its kilowatts. Nodding in the direction of the pool table, she adds, "I think your brother just lost."  
  
Sam returns his attention to the pool table just in time to see Dean put some money on the table. He lays down the cue and shakes Jason's hand genially, then says his goodbyes and practically stalks over to Sam and Jamie. Barely acknowledging Jamie's presence, he nods at Sam. "You ready to go?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
*-*  
  
They drive in silence; Dean's tension makes the entire car seem like one quivering extension of his body. Sam feels Dean's restlessness reverberate through Sam's own body, from Dean's fingers nervously tapping on the steering wheel, the barely contained power in his almost unnoticeably too-fast driving.   
  
Sam has the key. They enter the room and Sam reaches for the light switch, but Dean's faster, catches his hand before he can turn on the light, strong fingers closing around his wrist. The door falls closed, leaves them in darkness, and the next instant Dean is all over him, presses him against the door with a open-mouthed, passionate kiss, his hand still gripping Sam's wrist so strongly that he must be able to feel the erratic thump-thump of Sam's pulse. Dean's other hand fists in his shirt, and for a second, Sam is paralysed by shock, and by the electric current of desire crawling over his body like Dean hit a switch. His hands come up of their own volition, fist in Dean's hair, hold him where Sam can kiss him back, and he does, warm, wet, deep kisses, the smell and taste of his brother bursting on his senses like a revelation. Dean's thigh slides between his legs, and Dean gasps, a small, desperate sound that tells Sam more than the frantically clutching hands and the biting, licking hot mouth against his.   
  
Sloppy, passionate kisses make way to Dean biting at his neck, and Sam rubs against Dean, pulling at his clothes until he's got Dean's jacket off and his shirt out of the way so he can get to Dean's warm, smooth skin under his fingers, a terrain he knows so well, scars of wounds he dressed himself. And maybe this is why Dean seems to fit so perfectly into Sam's space, because he's always been there. It's difficult to care though when Dean's thigh rubs Sam's cock just right, just so to drive Sam out of his mind with desire. And then both skin and thigh are gone, and Sam wonders for a second what's going on, until frantic fingers tear at the buttons of his jeans, almost ripping them open, sliding them down his hips. Reason, thought, everything disappears into pure feeling as Dean's mouth wraps around his cock. White-hot pleasure envelops him as Dean starts to suck him just... oh God, just right, just perfect. His own breath sounds harsh in his ears, magnified like the wet, sucking sounds coming from Dean that drive Sam crazy. His head falls back against the door and he reaches out for something, anything to hold on to before he falls apart entirely under his brother's no holds barred assault.   
  
His eyes close and his hand flails around for a hold, and he hits the wall heavily when Dean runs his tongue over the head of his cock, and then the mouth disappears suddenly as Sam realises that he's just turned on the light.  
  
For a moment, he imagines what he'll see when he opens his eyes. Dean, lips wet and swollen, sitting in front of him, sheepish grin on his face. Please let him not laugh this off, he thinks, and opens his eyes, still dazed.   
  
He was right except for the grin. Dean's lips are wet, and swollen, and he looks disheveled, his t-shirt has ridden up to his chest, his hair is a mess, and he looks anywhere but at Sam, standing right in front of him, ridiculous with his dick hanging out. He looks shell-shocked, broken open, the chaos of his emotions clearly visible on his face. There's nothing smooth about Dean right now, nothing slick, he looks as scared and raw as Sam feels. And he's never been more beautiful to Sam.  
  
Then he does the last thing Sam thought he'd do. He looks up, directly at Sam, and for a moment, they really _see_ each other, twenty-something men who have loved and bruised each other in every way imaginable, who know each other inside and out and not at all, who have done something together that's out of their experience, out of their realm of comprehension, and now it's out in the light, out in the open, now they have to look it in the face, acknowledge it.   
  
Only of course they being who and what they are, that's not what happens.  
  
Even though every breath is a seemingly impossible effort, Sam finds speech first. "Dean," he whispers, reaching out to his brother, wanting to help the still kneeling man to his feet.  
  
Dean flinches back as if Sam threatened to hit him, and the motionless shock he seemed to have fallen into breaks like a spell, and suddenly, he's on his feet and smoothes his hair back, puts his jacket on, looking anywhere but at Sam. Rebuilding his walls. Withdrawing again into this cocoon of cool manliness that Sam hates.  
  
"Dean," Sam repeats, more strongly this time. "Don't do this." He reaches out again, but Dean evades him, makes for the door Sam is still blocking.  
  
"Where are you going?" he asks, but Dean only shakes his head, tries to get past Sam to the doorknob without touching him. "Where are you going?" Sam asks again.  
  
"Get out of the way, Sammy," Dean answers, an edge of desperation in his voice.   
  
Sam stands his ground. "No. You're gonna have to deal with me sooner or later, you know. You can't always run away."  
  
Dean looks up at him, and the resentment he sees in his brother's eyes hits him harder than the words he spits out, "Well, you should know. You're the expert in running away, aren't you?"  
  
Too stunned to reply, Sam just stares at Dean, motionless. He doesn't put up much of a fight when Dean pushes him away and gets out, door slamming heavily behind him.   
  
It takes a while for Sam to notice that his now flaccid dick is still hanging out. He dresses himself again, fighting the urge to laugh hysterically at how this night's turned out. Looking out the window, he notices that the Impala isn't in the parking lot and that the moon is almost full.  
  
*-*  
  
Sam wakes up to the smell of coffee and the sudden intense awareness of being looked at. Keeping his eyes closed, he slides his hand under the pillow, closes his fingers around the cool metal of the gun. He knows of course that it's Dean watching him, but for the sake of not being shouted at for carelessness, he pretends that he doesn't. As if he couldn't always tell when Dean's looking at him.  
  
He opens his eyes, pulls out the gun, and pretends to be relieved when he sees Dean sit on the opposite bed, holding two cups of coffee. Dean looks tired and nervous, still wearing the same clothes he wore last night, and his bed is untouched. "Hey," he says, smiling weakly, not even glancing at the gun in Sam's hand.   
  
For a second, Sam has the feeling of watching the two of them from outside: Sam's hand frozen in the air with the silvery gun gleaming in the morning sunlight, Dean fidgeting with the coffee cups, slow-motion; a scene that is as commonplace as it is entirely bizarre.   
  
Sam clears his throat to find his voice this early in the morning. "Hey." He should be angry at Dean, should be pissed that Dean stayed out all night, that he worried Sam, that he didn't get rest with an important night ahead of them, that he just abandoned Sam in the middle of their own personal little bizarro world family drama, but he doesn't have the energy for anger. It'll come later, and it will be as bitter and hot as the coffee Dean hands him, but for now, lack of sleep and a residual taste of ashes from his nightmares make Sam unwilling to get into any of their many, many issues. So all he says is, "What time is it?"  
  
"Almost eight. Still early," Dean answers, watching Sam carefully. It's obvious that he's more than a little surprised that Sam hasn't exploded all over him yet, and equally apparent that he'd like to keep it that way. "Sorry for staying out all night, must've worried you. I totally lost track of time."  
  
Sam shrugs. "It happens." And there it is, a small spark of his anger. 'Lost track of time'. Dean will have to come up with something better than this. But it's not a conversation they'll have now, he knows that. Especially since they kind of have bigger fish to fry anyway. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes and sits up, carefully, to keep the slipping sheets from being too revealing. "So, breakfast?"  
  
Dean nods, then stands up, his entire body language screaming his uncertainty, fidgeting like a boxer prepared for a fight but finding his opponent has thrown in the towel. "Yeah. Get dressed, I'll pack the gear we'll need to deal with Jason."  
  
Sam nods and gets up, walking to the bathroom, conscious of every inch of naked skin and Dean's gaze steadily on his back. He hesitates briefly, hand hovering over the knob of the bathroom door. He looks at Dean's reflection in the dresser mirror, meets his brother's eyes in the glass. "You're not off the hook," Sam says quietly.  
  
A myriad of emotions flicker through Dean's eyes: relief, concern, dread, annoyance, others that aren't easily classifiable. Finally he nods, the corners of his mouth twitching in this embarrassed, angry, this-is-one-fucked-up-situation half-laugh that seems to be reserved for their kind of messes. "I know. But first..."  
  
Sam nods. "First we take care of Jason."  
  
*-*   
  
Jason's house is on the outskirts of the town, a lovely old place with a stone cellar and a neatly trimmed lawn that leads to the shore of the lake. A pier with a small rowing boat belongs to the property, as does a small garage. They park the Impala so that it's not immediately visible from the main road or the house, and start to unload. Each of them takes a gun with silver bullets, and Sam adds his silver curved knife.   
  
Dean checks the gun one last time, then tugs it into the waistband of his jeans. "So what if we're wrong, what if he knows that he's a werewolf and just gets off on killing people."  
  
Sam looks at the knife in his hand. "We kill him."  
  
"And how will we know one way or the other?"  
  
Sam shrugs. "We'll know."  
  
Snorting, Dean picks up some rope. "Very reassuring."  
  
They walk up to the house and up the steps to the front door. "Here goes," Dean murmurs and knocks.   
  
It takes a few moments for a sleepy Jason to open the door. He smiles when he recognises them from last night. "Hey, guys, what's up?"  
  
"Morning, Jason," Dean says, his tone neutral, almost friendly. "I just forgot something." He reaches into his pocket and takes something out, making to give it to Jason, but he drops it on the wooden floor instead.   
  
Sam holds his breath as Jason bends down to pick up the silver dollar, but drops it again immediately. "Ouch, that's fucking hot," he murmurs and straightens again.  
  
Dean sighs. "Yeah, I thought so," he says, and smoothly punches Jason in the face, knocking him unconscious. "Great," he sighs. "I hate this gig."  
 


	3. Chapter 3

*-*  
  
They've searched the house and premises top to bottom and finally found the cage in the shed, hidden behind blast doors. Jason's parents were very thorough: chains, ropes and silver-coated bars, all perfectly suited for werewolf restraint. They've lugged the unconscious Jason into the cage and bound him, and now there's little to do but wait for Jason to wake up.  
  
"I guess his parents did it pretty much the same way," Dean says around a mouthful of a sandwich.   
  
Sam sighs. "Did you have to go through his fridge?"   
  
Dean grins. "Hey, I made you one, too." He holds up a second sandwich. "Tuna, sweetcorn, lettuce. You're such a girl."  
  
"Shut up," Sam says and grabs the sandwich from Dean.   
  
*-*  
  
They find a few boxes full of books and Sam falls on them like they're treasure. He takes them out, fondles them almost like a lover, only now realizing how much he's starved for intellectual sustenance. There's an old, earmarked copy of _On the Road_ , and Sam bunks down and starts to read, ignoring Dean, who's clearly bored out of his mind and amuses himself by looking through the boxes.  
  
"Hey, bookworm," Dean calls after 20 pages, and Sam looks up from the book.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Look what I found here." Dean shows him a small medical kit. "There's enough tranquilizers and painkillers here to sustain Michigan."  
  
Sam looks at Jason, who's still unconscious and chained to the wall. "Poor kid."  
  
Dean snorts and shakes his head. "Man, you..."  
  
Two words, and Sam feels the anger stab at his belly. That's the main problem of arguing with Dean - he knows where Sam's buttons are and how to push them. "What?" Sam tosses the book aside. "You want to say something, say it."   
  
Dean slides down to the ground in one smooth, tight movement and gives him this superior I-see-through-you half-smile Sam hates so much, a big-brother gesture that makes Sam feel about five years old. "Nothin'. Just..."  
  
"Just what?"  
  
Shrugging, Dean gestures at Jason. "Sometimes I just don't get you."  
  
For a moment, Sam is silent. Then, he says, quietly, "Well, maybe you should just, I don't know, talk to me? About something other than monsters and ghosts and hustling Pool?"  
  
Dean shrugs. "Okay." For a second, there's silence. Then Dean adds, "So, how about those Lakers."  
  
"Sports?" Sam is incredulous. "All that's happened to us in the last half year, and you want to talk about sports?"  
  
Dean sighs and rolls his eyes. "Jesus, Sammy, spare me this Kum-Bah-Yah let's talk about our emotions shit. That's not the way we do this, it never was."  
  
Sam snorts. "That's not the way _you_ do it, you mean. I guess it doesn't matter whether _I_ want to talk about something."  
  
"Oh, please, spare me that bullshit. I _tried_ to talk to you about Jessica, and all I got was a mind your own business," Dean says, his voice showing his exasperation. He runs a hand through his hair in a gesture of frustration. "What is there to talk about anyway?"  
  
Shaking his head, Sam gives him a look that clearly says that whatever Dean's trying to sell, he's not buying. "Don't play dumb. How about Dad, or what we did in our two and a half years apart? Or how about that last night, you had your mouth on my..."   
  
Dean's on his feet before Sam can finish the sentence, moving away from Sam, restless. "Why do we have to talk about that? What's there to say? What?" he asks, almost yells, and the uncertainty in his voice shakes Sam.  
  
He opens his mouth, and it occurs to him that even though he's had 12 hours to prepare for this conversation, he has no idea what to say. "I..." he sighs, makes a vague, helpless gesture. "I don't... get you," he finishes lamely.  
  
Shaking his head, Dean laughs, a dry, humourless sound. "Welcome to the club."  
  
Sam gets up and crosses the room, stops at arm's length from Dean. "We don't talk, Dean. We just... do." _We just fuck_ , he adds silently.   
  
Dean looks at him, and there's something bordering on desperation in his eyes. "What's wrong with that?" he almost-whispers, the intensity in his eyes almost painfully burning into Sam. "What good does talking ever do?"  
  
For a moment, Sam has no words. Dean's closeness, the fire in his eyes, the intensity of his presence, makes him forget what they're fighting about. It would be so easy to just reach out and kiss him. And he's not sure whether Dean would welcome that. Which he realizes is one part of the problem: he has no idea what Dean wants.  
  
Dean's lips part as if he wants to say something. He licks them to moisten them, and Sam lets out a long, shaky breath. They move closer unconsciously, pulled together like gravitational forces.   
  
"What is this?" Sam whispers, and Dean looks at him as if he wants to slap him and fuck him senseless at the same time, which might actually be a pretty accurate description of their relationship in general.  
  
"I don't know," Dean says, and the exasperation is back in his voice. "Does it matter?"  
  
Somehow, Sam isn't sure that it does. What seems to matter a whole lot more is how Dean's lips look right now, how he smells, how warm his body is. "Maybe not that much," Sam whispers.  
  
"Would you mind telling me what the fuck you two nutjobs want from me?" Jason's voice comes from the cage, sounding annoyed and afraid in equal parts.  
  
*-*  
  
"I'm what?" Jason is both incredulous and scared, even though he tries not to show it. Sam sees through him like butter, though.   
  
"You're a werewolf. Remember when you were bitten as a kid?" Dean asks, his tone nonchalant and conversational, obviously trying to calm Jason down.  
  
Jason nods. "It's not the kind of thing you forget," he says, his voice a bit hoarse.   
  
Sam sighs. God he feels sorry for that poor bastard. "The thing that bit you was a werewolf. He infected you, and you've been one ever since."  
  
"Bullshit," Jason scoffs, struggling against his restraints.  
  
Tipping his finger against the bar, Dean gives Jason a sarcastic smirk. "Oh, really? And why is there a cage with silver-coated bars built into the shed of your house?"  
  
"We think your parents knew, and they locked you up here and drugged you so you wouldn't remember," San jumps in immediately, seeing the doubt in Jason's eyes, hammering it in just a bit more.   
  
"It doesn't make any sense." Jason's voice shows his uncertainty now. He doesn't _want_ to believe them, but Sam thinks that on some level, he knows they're telling the truth.  
  
Dean shrugs. "Bad things usually make no sense."  
  
Jason shakes his head. "I don't believe you. You're just some nutjobs looking for a reason to kill me."  
  
"Jason, listen to me," Sam says, crouching down, and he can hear Dean's exasperated 'here-come-the-waterworks' snort. Sam ignores him. "We don't think you realise it, but you've hurt a lot of people. Didn't it ever seem strange to you that the attacks only occur when you're in town? Can you ever remember what you did the nights of the attacks?" There's a flicker in Jason's eyes, and Sam pushes on. "I bet you sometimes wake up sore, disoriented, you don't know where you are. I bet you have memory gaps. I bet once or twice in college, your roommates asked you what the weird noises coming out of your room were, and you genuinely didn't know because you had no idea what you were doing the night before. I bet your friends get scared of you a bit sometimes, and you don't know why." Somehow, as he speaks, Sam realizes that he doesn't _think_ that Jason did all this. He _knows_.   
  
Jason swallows, looks at Sam, clearly spooked. "Now that's just... freaky."  
  
Sam can feel Dean's eyes on him, hears him murmur something like, "Yeah, you tellin' me," under his breath.   
  
"How do you know all that shit?" Jason asks.   
  
Sam shrugs, tries to sound nonchalant. "I'm a bit different, Jason. Kinda like you."  
  
There's a sharp intake of breath from Dean, and Sam looks up, daring Dean to say something. Dean gives him a look that clearly says he thinks Sam is full of it. "Remind me to join your support group," he snarks.  
  
Sam's torn between smirking and punching Dean, but right now he does neither, adds it to the list of things to bust Dean's ass about later. "Jason, we want to help you. But you need to believe us first."  
  
Jason looks at the brothers, and Sam swears to himself never to forget the expression in his eyes, the complete void he sees there. "You go ahead and do whatever it is you want to with me, and cram the freak show bit." He turns away from them and stares intently at the bloody clawmarks on the wall.  
  
Dean leans over to Sam. "Can I talk to you outside for a sec?"  
  
*-*  
  
As soon as they're outside, Dean turns on him. "What the _fuck_ was that in there?"  
  
For now, Sam decides to play dumb. "What was what?"  
  
Dean gestures at the shed, clearly exasperated. "That freakshow act in there. I thought you'd start to chant 'One of us, One of us' any second now."  
  
"I was trying to get him to believe us," Sam points out, his tone reasonable even though the rising anger stings at his eyes.  
  
Dean runs his hand through his hair, his entire body language screams frustration. "Well, try a different approach next time, 'cause frankly, I'm getting sick of your bleeding heart for murderous freaks."  
  
It seems to Sam that they're having this conversation for the hundredth time and every time he says the same thing. "I just- I can understand what it's like to be him. He carries this big, dangerous thing around with him. He didn't ask for it and he can't get rid of it."  
  
Dean sounds like he's holding on to his temper by the skin of his nails. "Sam, you're not like him. You don't kill people. Your... whatever you're capable of, you don't hurt anybody with it. You help people. That doesn't make you a freak, it makes you a good person."  
  
"You're right," Sam concedes, "for now. But how do we know what might happen to me? How do we know that these nightmares, these visions, that they're not just the first step to me becoming something... else? What if this drives me crazy? What if I start to use my powers against people without wanting to? What then, Dean? Will you just shoot me, or stick me in a cage for the rest of my life?" His voice has gone continually louder and he's yelling now, not even trying to keep the fear out of his voice.  
  
"It won't come this far!" Dean's yelling too, now, "I won't let it happen." The intense conviction in his brother's voice is almost frightening, the burning in his eyes almost reassuring. Almost.  
  
Sam's not reassured. He's angry. And so, so sick of hearing Dean dismiss his fears like this. He takes a step towards Dean and pushes him in the chest. "You know, you and Dad, you live in the same little dream world where you can prevent bad things from happening and protect me from evil. Well, that's not the way it works, Dean! You can't promise me that I won't turn into some kind of monster, because in all likelihood you won't be able to do a thing to stop it! I was so convinced that I could protect Jess, but she died, right in front of me, and there wasn't anything I could do, or anything Dad could do, or anything you could do. You can't protect me from everything, Dean, it doesn't work! I know you want to, and I know you think you're capable of it, but I need you to see that it's just not within your power! I've got every reason in the world to be scared, and you know it!"   
  
Dean pushes him right back. "What am I supposed to do then, Sammy? Live with the knowledge that I can't protect you? What do you want from me? Do you want to hear that I'm fucking shit-scared out of my wits because I've got no idea how to protect you, how to stop this from happening to you? That not knowing what's happening to you scares me so much that I could just be sick every time I think of it, that I can't sleep sometimes because I'm paralysed with fear for you, that I know that even though I'd do _everything_ to keep you safe, it may not be enough? Well, you can wait a long time for that, Sam, because no way am I ever going to say that!"   
  
Stunned, Sam can do nothing but look at Dean. He feels like he's been punched in the guts by the fear in Dean's voice, in his eyes. They're both breathing hard, as if they'd fought physically. Dean is standing so close that Sam can see every one of his freckles,and the pale skin beneath it. Nothing smooth about Dean now, just raw human being, alive and passionate and staring back at him with so much emotion Sam thinks he might drown. It's how Sam loves Dean the most, how he could just never look away from him.   
  
No words come; none are left to this conversation. For once, they've said everything there is to say. It's horrible, and it's frightening, but at least it's out there, no longer hiding under the bed, now they can look it in the face.  
  
Slowly, they pull back from each other; slowly, confidence returns into Dean's gaze. Sam smiles. Somehow he feels better now. Reassured. "I'll stop with the freak bonding, ok?"  
  
Dean cracks a weak smile. He looks exhausted. "Good. 'Cuz you're really nothing like Jason, you know? Way less hairy, for one."  
  
Sam shakes his head, smiling. "Always the smartass."  
  
Dean shoves him, trying for casual and almost succeeding. "Shut up."  
  
Sam feels like he's just climbed a mountain and fallen down the other side. Bruised, but accomplished. "Let's go inside and set up. It'll be dark soon."  
  
Wordlessly, Dean nods, and they head back inside.  
  
*-*  
  
"So what now?" Jason asks, trying and failing to put on a brave face.  
  
Sam holds up the video camera he got from the Impala. "We're gonna tape your transformation, since you probably won't believe us otherwise."  
  
Jason stares at him. "You're crazy."  
  
"Dude, big news," says Dean, who's just come in with the camera stand, his only answer to Sam's dirty look a grin.  
  
Sam turns back to Jason. "You want something to eat while we wait for moonrise?"  
  
Dean pulls a pack of cards from the back pocket of his jeans. "How about poker?"  
  
Jason shoots both brothers incredulous glances. "You're absolutely insane."  
  
Dean shrugs. "Black Jack, then?"  
  
*-*  
  
"You cheat," Sam murmurs.  
  
Dean grins. "No, dude, you just really, really suck. Now fork over the cash."  
  
"He's right about one thing," Jason says from the cage.  
  
"What?" Sam asks, annoyed.   
  
"You can't bluff for shit."  
  
Dean bites his lips and Sam dares him to laugh. "Just fucking deal."  
  
*-*  
  
Jason grows pale and silent as the sun sets. Sam and Dean put away the cards and check their equipment, grim now, serious, focused. They check their silver bullet guns and the tranquilizer gun, out of sight of an already terrified Jason. They make sure that the cage is secure, that the video camera is rolling.   
  
It gets cold in the room, not rapidly, but noticeably. It's not spring teasing them with warm days and slapping them with cold nights. It's a different kind of cold. One Sam and Dean know all too well.  
  
The brothers' breaths fog in front of their faces, makes them both seem like protective dragons, positioned as they are left and right of the cage door, with Jason as pale as a statue and as motionless. He's kneeling in the middle of the cage now, manacles stretched to their utmost reach. Silver gleams when odd flashes of light from cars driving by hit guns or bars.   
  
Silence moves into the room, the kind that sucks away any and all noise like vacuum, an almost physically tangible sensation. Energy sizzles, sparks off the bars, the brothers' teeth. Primal. Feral. It smells of blood, of hunting. The feel of it makes Sam's heart beat faster, makes him tense up, all his senses sharpen. Exhilaration floods him, the likes of which he only feels when hunting evil, or when he has sex with Dean. He's painfully hard and uniquely focused. A hunter. A primal animal that knows nothing of thought, only of wanting and getting. He locks eyes with Dean, almost growls in recognition of a kindred spirit, a foe worthy of.   
  
Every hair on his body stands on edge as the energy caresses him, ultimately moves through him, past him, to centre on Jason, who throws his head back, baring his teeth, and howls in a voice that has nothing human left in it.   
  
The transformation starts from one blink of an eye to the next. It's nothing like Sam thought it would be. It's not gradual, not accompanied with growling and snarling and rapid growth of hair. Jason, the human boy, seems to split open, to shed himself, to grow out of himself into a primeval hunter, a creature in its nature neither good nor evil, a mindless, senseless killer lusting for blood for no other reason than to quench its unquenchable hunger. From one moment to the next where a boy was there is now a wolf in man-form, or a man in wolf-form. An ancient, primal curse of nature.   
  
The silence recedes, broken by non-human harsh panting. A threatening sound. Angry. The werewolf lifts its yellow eyes and looks at Sam, its intense gaze an order. Let me out. Sam stares back. No. The werewolf snarls and lets out a deep, warning growl, tries to move towards them, but the restraints hold it in place. There's a hunter's intelligence in its yellow eyes. Sam already sees it there, the lust for their flesh. It chills him.  
  
A low growl, intimidating gestures. Neither of the brothers backs down. The werewolf jumps, or tries to, held back by the restraints, which creak in the old walls, but hold. Neither brother moves save for subtle tightening of hands around their weapons.  
  
It's enough for now. The werewolf understands the silver in their hands. It's an old hunter. It can wait. For now. Until the hunger gets too intense.  
  
The sense of imminent danger fades. The chains hold. They're safe for now. Slowly, the brothers move out of their paralysis, fingers that gripped guns relax. Sam's body tingles all over, the primal energy that forced the werewolf out of Jason's body still tangible under his skin. Dean takes two steps towards Sam, gaze fixed on the werewolf. He puts a hand on Sam's arm and want flashes through Sam like lightning. He turns to Dean, and, slowly, Dean turns his head towards Sam. In his hyperaware state, Sam thinks he can see Dean's pupils dilate.   
  
"I think he's secured for now," Dean says, nodding at the beast.  
  
Sam nods. "Yeah."   
  
One last look at the chains and the subtly struggling werewolf convince Sam that they're safe, and he follows Dean outside.  
  
The moment the door falls shut, they don't so much kiss as clash, all teeth and claws, bites, clothes ripping, a physical force, electricity, storm, unleashed between them, the smell and taste and feel of Dean all Sam can say for sure exists right now in the universe. Conscious thought is miles away; all that counts for Sam is to get to Dean's body, get as much of it as he can, now. Dean pushes him against the outer wall of the shed, and in an instant is all over him, hands raking down his body, kissing wherever he can reach, and Sam gives as good as he gets, teeth scraping over Dean's skin, wanting to taste his brother.   
  
He looks at Dean, sees nothing in his eyes but want, need, for him, and Sam can feel the same want burning him up inside, to get all of Dean, for Dean to hold nothing back on him. He wants Dean to be all his, all the time, no holds barred. Realization comes that he's always wanted this, as long as he can think back. All his life he wanted Dean to be _his_ , in as many ways as there are ways to have a person. The fierceness of the feeling would stun him if he were capable of not touching Dean right now, of not kissing him. It's like Dean is a magnet and his fingers, lips are iron, drawn to his skin, sticking there as if for good. Dean tastes of sweat and adrenaline, and his hands on Sam clutch him so tightly Sam thinks Dean might actually break skin, and Sam's not sure he wouldn't welcome any part of Dean under his skin, provided that Dean stays there, forever. Right now he thinks there is nothing he wouldn't give Dean, gladly, in return for Dean kissing him, for Dean letting him in and never out again.   
  
And Dean kisses him, fiercely, deeply, pins him against the wall, and Sam rubs against him, his entire body straining towards Dean's warmth. They push against each other, good and hard, fast and messy, desperate without knowing why, rubbing each other raw and hot, bodies pressed against each other. Every point of contact is a source of pleasure that turns Sam almost blind as it builds. Dean's thigh rubbing against him is one white-hot point of contact, Dean's cock, hardness under denim, is another. Sam moves mindlessly, humps Dean blindly, and Dean holds on to him, holds him together and rubs his body against Sam, all hard muscles and scarred, calloused skin. His head snaps back from the pleasure, and Dean's teeth on his exposed neck push him over the edge with a force he didn't reckon with. He's glad for Dean and the wall holding him on his feet, and for Dean's demanding erection pressing against him. Half-blind from his own orgasm, Sam shoves his hand down Dean's pants, jerks him roughly, watching his brother's face like he always wanted as Dean looks at him like he's fire and water and earth, food and drink and oxygen to Dean, mysterious and necessary. Then Dean comes apart for him, and it's the most riveting sight Sam has ever seen in his life, it's something he knows he won't be able not to see again.  
  
Dean collapses against him, and slowly, they pull themselves together. The energy fades, the narrow focus of adrenaline rush disappears, and when Sam lifts his head to look at Dean, he sees an instant of undistilled fear, shock and awe, before Dean pulls away, straightens his clothes. "Now look what we did on the job. Whatever will the boss say when he sees how we used the office space?" Dean says, trying to joke but his voice sounds hoarse, unlike himself.  
  
Sam isn't capable of speech. What just happened defies any words he has, maybe even any words he needs. He looks at Dean, pleading for something to hold on to. But Dean looks none too steady himself. Sam reaches out, grabs at Dean's clothes, and pulls him in, almost crushes him to his chest. Slowly, hesitantly, Dean's arms come around Sam, and finally he holds on just as tightly as Sam. They stay like this until their breathing turns normal and knees have solidified. Gently this time, Sam strokes fingers through Dean's hair, down his back, feeling as if his chest may burst any moment. Dean's hands clutch at Sam's shirt, and a deep shudder passes through his body. He takes a deep breath, and then pulls back, looks at Sam, half a smile on his face. He smoothes Sam's hair back from his forehead, and Sam leans forward, presses his lips to Dean's, a gentle, long, deep kiss. A low, soft moan escapes Dean, the longing in the sound physically punching through Sam's body.   
  
Then he pulls back from Sam, and the night air between them cuts into the gaps of their clothing. Still, Sam has no words. Dean ruffles through his hair one more time, looking at Sam with so much love and fear that Sam thinks he might be sick.  
  
"I'll go get some clothes to change," Dean whispers and lets go of Sam.  
  
Sam can only nod and watch Dean go back to the car, too stunned for words.   
  
Inside the shed, the werewolf growls. Sam picks up the gun he dropped and goes back inside to watch the beast.  
 


	4. Chapter 4

*-*  
  
  
The werewolf is quiet for now, watching Sam, waiting for its moment. Sam has the gun loosely in hand, lying in his lap. He feels the danger emanate from the werewolf, but he's unafraid, because he knows, and more importantly the werewolf knows, that Sam has the upper hand right now. Werewolves aren't stupid. It's the most dangerous thing about them.  
  
It's so quiet in the shed that Sam can hear his own breath, still going a bit fast from what just happened between him and Dean. It scares him sometimes, how intensely Dean affects him. How intensely he affects Dean. It scares him that Dean's just irrevocably a part of him, that he will always be able to affect Sam with a wink of an eye, that he will always be there; scares him, and comforts him. They've had fights, vicious fights, drawing blood figuratively and literally, and still they both always come back for more. They forgive, even if there are some things they've said to each other that they can't quite forget. Some things they did to each other they can't forget. Sam doesn't think Dean will ever forget that Sam left. Twice. But he doubts that Dean will forget that Sam came back, too.   
  
Keeping his eyes on the werewolf, Sam gets up and goes to the window, then glances out quickly to see what's taking Dean so long by the car only to see his brother come back along the way, one of their bags slung casually over his shoulder. It's too dark to see the expression on his face, so Sam goes back and sits down next to the cage.   
  
There's a thump, a muffled curse, and then Dean comes into the room. "Son of a bitch," he mutters and drops the clothesbag.  
  
Sam gets up. "What's the matter?"  
  
Dean gestures at the stairs. "Bumped my fucking toe!"  
  
The laugh comes naturally for Sam, and he can't be sorry when he sees Dean's 'Dude, what's so fucking funny?' expression. He wades around in the clothesbag and pulls out a fresh pair of boxers and a cleaner pair of jeans. "Be right back," he mutters, suddenly embarrassed.  
  
Dean pretends not to notice and nods, taking the shotgun with the silver bullets from the wall and taking Sam's place on the floor. "I'll keep watch. You take your time." His tone is casual and dismissive, his expression once more smooth, untroubled. For all the world he's Joe Average going after his day job, with never an indecent or impure thought about close blood relatives in his life. Sam hates how Dean can live through the same shit Sam does and rarely show any of it, and how he always makes Sam feel weak for not being able to do the same.  
  
Sighing, he picks up his clothes and leaves Dean to stare at the werewolf, and the werewolf to stare at Dean. Absently, he wonders who'll blink first.  
  
*-*  
  
It takes Sam all of five minutes to change, but since Dean all but told him to take a break, he sees no immediate hurry to go back. He doesn't want to stay in the house, though. He feels enough of a creep for locking Jason in his own shed. Come morning he'll thank them, surely, but it's the thing crazy serial killers do.   
  
The night is crisp, but not cold, and the sounds of waves licking against the pier can be heard over the stillness of the night, so Sam goes down to the water and sits on the pier. There must have been a time in his life where he looked at the deep stillness of water and was able to appreciate its beauty, the way light would reflect on it, move with it, play along the surface. There must have been a time where this dark body of water would create nothing but idle curiosity and a desire to swim. Sam can't honestly remember. All he sees now are potential burial grounds for dead bodies and a catalogue of water monsters. So he lies back and turns his eyes to the stars.   
  
The stars at least have retained their innocence. It's easy for Sam to find them beautiful. The moon, though, full and huge and hanging from the sky as if it wanted to drop, the moon is in its own eerie way a part of the travesty that Sam's life has become.  
  
One more time Sam asks himself where he went wrong. Jessica? No. If he's honest with himself - something he never was to her - even with her he felt off. Leaving home? Maybe if he'd stayed, none of this would've happened. Maybe Dean and Dad would've been able to protect him from the fire demon. Or maybe not. Maybe the demon would've killed Dean or Dad instead. And as much as Sam loved Jessica, he could survive her death. He honestly doubts whether he could've survived Dad, or even worse, Dean dying this way. Dying for him.   
  
Maybe there isn't anything Sam could've done differently. Maybe he would still be here now: freak, oddly appearing and disappearing powers, brother issues, and absent father included.  
  
Unbidden, he thinks of Jessica's funeral. He remembers how disconnected he felt, from his body, from sensation, even from his own grief. He remembers Jess' uncle reading W.H. Auden. _The stars are not wanted now. Put out every one. Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun._ It summed up his feelings perfectly.  
  
He remembers walking like a ghost for weeks. Hardly ate, hardly slept, only Dean keeping him going, Dean, and the drive to find Dad, to end this nightmare. It'd been Dean who'd pulled him back into his body, back into life, with his mouth on Sam's and his hand on Sam's cock, with the intensity of his presence, with the insistence that Sam won't withdraw entirely, won't stop living. Dean who'd pulled him out of the cavern of his own mind back into something resembling life. Dean who insisted that Sam make an effort, if not for himself, then for his brother. Dean who kept driving him hard, because Sam on his own would have given up, caved in, left this unfinished, would have run as fast as his feet could carry him to be normal again. But there is no running. Not from himself, and certainly not from Dean. God knows he's tried and neither worked at all.  
  
He doesn't remember any moment growing up when he looked at Dean and saw a sexual being. It hit him like a sledgehammer when they were together again after two years of no contact at all, though. They're no longer boys. They're men. Dean's no longer lanky and awkward; he's all broad-shouldered, lean, hard-edged sexual predator. In a way, Sam thinks it's twistedly natural that Sam, affection-starved and always a sucker for Dean's attention, responds to that like Pavlov's dog. It's more than that, though, and he knows it. He and Dean just... fit. They always have. They fall into step effortlessly where the job is concerned, and they had picked up as brothers where they left off, issues and all. As men, grown-ups with their own sets of issues, habits and personalities, though, they clash. Again and again. In good and bad ways. But it works. When it's good it's spectacular, and when it's bad their lifetime together smoothes over the rough patches. Sometimes Sam asks himself whether he and Dean were meant to be brothers, given how well their opposing parts fit. Most of all though Dean just makes Sam feel safe, and comfortable when he doesn't feel like he has something to prove.  
  
Sam glances at the lake. Pity that it's cold. Sam would love a swim. He may be afraid of the water, but that never has stopped him from going in before.   
  
*-*  
  
"Sammy!"  
  
Dean's voice seems to come from far away. For a moment, Sam feels like he's underwater before he realises that he's sleeping and trying to wake up.   
  
"Sam!"   
  
The urgency in Dean's voice wakes him up all the way. He opens his eyes and blinks, confused. He's still on the pier. "Oh, fuck, I fell asleep."  
  
"No shit, Sherlock," Dean answers, trying for mocking, but the roughness in his voice shows that he was worried.  
  
Sam cringes. "I'm sorry."  
  
Shrugging, Dean holds out a hand to help him up. "No problem, man. Just wondered whether you'd left me in there with the big bad wolf, Rapunzel."  
  
"It's Red Riding Hood," Sam corrects automatically as they start walking towards the shed. "Rapunzel's the one with the hair."  
  
"Oh, right," Dean answers, absently, not looking at him as they walk.  
  
Sam knows it would be smart to leave it at that for now. He's never been smart. "Dean, about before..."  
  
Dean holds up a hand, still not looking at him. "I think I'll take a rain check on the touchy-feely-deep-emotions talk for now, thanks a lot."  
  
Five, four, three, two, one. Sam's angry. No, Sam's pissy. "God, why do you always have to be such a jerk?"  
  
Dean stops in his tracks and turns around, wearing his best intimidation expression. "I'm being a jerk how? Because I don't want to sit down, braid your hair and _talk_?" Dean says 'talk' like it's a dirty word.  
  
Sam rubs a hand over his forehead, trying to dislodge a threatening Dean-headache. "No, because every time I think we're making progress, every time I think we're getting close, you push me away."  
  
" _I'm_ pushing?" Dean sounds incredulous. "You're the one who walks out, who always tells me how he doesn't want to be here, who bitches all the time."  
  
He's got a point, Sam has to admit that. "At least I try to talk to you, but you're not hearing me." He runs a hand through his hair and yanks at it, frustrated when his fingers get snagged on a tangle.   
  
Dean snorts. "Oh, I heard you loud and clear, Sam. 'As soon as the Demon is dead, I'm leaving.' Did I get that right?" Sam's taken aback by the anger in his voice.  
  
"Yes." It comes out in a hoarse whisper. It's what he said. He meant it when he said it.   
  
"And you ask why I push you away. Why I don't let my guard down. Because, Sammy, sooner or later, you'll leave. You'll leave like you left before, without turning back, without thinking of what you leave behind." Dean looks at Sam, and the naked desperation in his eyes hurts Sam almost physically. His raw voice rakes over every open wound in Sam's conscience. "You'll leave, and you'll take everything with you," Dean almost-whispers, and Sam can read what he doesn't say in his eyes. The fear of losing himself to Sam to the degree of not being able to function without him. A fear Sam shares.  
  
Sam is in Dean's space so quickly he isn't even aware of moving. His hands come up to cup Dean's face, and before Dean can say anything, Sam kisses him. Softly, deliberately, eyes open, watching as Dean's shocked expression melts into hunger. Slowly, Sam licks over Dean's parting lips, thinking that Dean's never tasted quite this good before. The kiss is soft, wet, just lips against lips, caressing, a feather of a touch, before Dean's lips part and Sam delves into Dean's mouth for a long, luxurious taste, taking his time. Dean moans against him, his tongue tangling with Sam's, and God, Dean is a good kisser, deliberate and just the right amount of pushy. Dean's fingers tangle gently in Sam's hair, and Sam pulls back slowly, whispering against Dean's lips. "That was before."  
  
Dean frowns at him, sceptical, but hopeful. "And now that we..." he doesn't say 'fuck', but Sam hears it, "Everything is different?"  
  
Sam shakes his head. "No. But some things are." _I didn't realize that I'm in love with you before_. He doesn't need to say it, Dean knows anyway.  
  
Dean opens his mouth, but at that moment, there's a crash in the shed.  
  
They run to the shed, guns drawn, and reach it just as the werewolf jumps against the cage door. Sam shoves Dean out of the way and fires automatically, seeing the beast go for Dean, protective instinct kicking in, overriding rational thought. The silver bullet goes through the werewolf's shoulder, and it howls fiercely. Sam holds it at bay with the gun, then helps Dean up. Dean grabs the tranquilizer gun and shoots a dart into the werewolf's leg. The beast slowly drops off, and Dean looks up at Sam. "Phew. Fuck damnit, I gotta say, bleeding heart and all, that was one knee-jerk reaction, Sammy."  
  
Sam shrugs. "I just saw it go in your direction, and fired. The mortar around the chains must've given out."  
  
Dean makes a face. "Let's just not mention any of this to dad, ok?"  
  
Sam nods total agreement. For a few moments, they watch the werewolf in silence, then go to work. Dean holds the gun trained to the werewolf while Sam gives the beast a shot of tranquilizer, pulls out the bullet and binds the shoulder wound. Then they do what they can with ropes and chains and check that the camera is still rolling.  
  
When they're finished, Sam feels exhaustion creep back in. "Dean?"  
  
He can hear the tiredness in Dean's voice as well. "Yeah?"  
  
"Another round of poker?"  
  
Dean smiles at him, a genuine, 1000-watt Dean smile. "You're on."  
  
*-*  
  
The werewolf's sound asleep, and after half an hour of an increasingly incoherent game of poker, Dean is too.   
  
Sam grabs the rifle and sits between Dean and the cage, watching both his brother and the werewolf sleep. Dean's gone completely limp, leaning against the wall, his legs sprawled over the floor. He's snoring softly. Sam smiles.   
  
It's now difficult to remember, that for two and a half years he's lived without Dean's constant presence in his life, and that he functioned perfectly during that time. Dean seems so vital a part of staying alive now that it's hard to imagine it possible. He missed Dean during those years, of course, especially in the beginning, missed him so much that more than one time, he seriously considered going back just to be with Dean.   
  
And yet...  
  
He can't live like this forever. Not for anyone. Not even for Dean. Most of the time, he's indifferent about it. Sometimes he loves it, sometimes he violently hates it. He can stand it, though, because there's a light at the end of the tunnel. Something to work towards. Something he can do to make it stop.   
  
There's always the fear, of course. What if he's fooling himself and this, his for lack of a better word 'powers', won't go away when the Demon is dead. What if he can't keep up a normal life. What to do about Dean. He _hates_ hurting Dean. He doesn't ever want to do it again, even more than he doesn't want to get hurt himself.   
  
There's no solution to this dilemma. He knows it, has known it since he first left. Maybe Dean's right. Thinking and talking doesn't make anything easier. It only brings things to the light that can't be solved, that destroy any moment of contentment or enjoyment he can grasp in this fucked-up mess. Who knows what'll happen tomorrow. Now he's here, now Dean's here, now they can have… whatever it is they're having with each other. Sam's beginning to think that when there's a good possibility that you might actually die tomorrow, then maybe thinking about what they'll do if they happen to find a way to kill an immortal spirit may actually be kind of frivolous, not to mention almost entirely pointless.   
  
The werewolf growls in its sleep and Dean startles awake. "I wasn't asleep," he murmurs, immediately defensive at the sight of Sam's grin.  
  
"So you weren't snoring, just breathing really deeply?" Sam asks, vastly amused.   
  
Dean nods vigorous agreement. "Yeah. 'Cause I don't snore anyway."  
  
Sam snorts. "Yeah, right. So I guess the sound waking me up every second night must be some kind of weird-noised spirit following us around, then, who only comes out when you're asleep."  
  
Again Dean nods. "Obviously. Never heard of the weird-noise spirit? I'm disappointed in you, Sammy."  
  
Smiling, Sam gets up and grabs a blanket from one of their bags. "Shut up and go back to sleep."   
  
Dean catches the blanket Sam tosses at him. "Well, if you absolutely insist..."  
  
*-*  
  
It's 2 am in the morning, three hours to moonset. Dean's woken up and is annoyingly perky. "So."  
  
Sam looks up from his book. "Yeah?"  
  
"I thought you wanted to talk," Dean says. "I'm listening."  
  
For a moment, Sam is dumbstruck. Then he shrugs and puts the book away. "Okay."  
  
Dean nods and his body language is all 'bring it on'.   
  
"So how about those Lakers," Sam says, and can hardly keep the laughter in when Dean looks at him like he's lost it, then starts to smile, grin, and then they're both laughing.   
  
"They suck," Dean snorts between laughing, and Sam leans over and pulls him in for a kiss, and that's that for talking for a while.  
  
*-*  
  
5 am, the moon sets. It gets cold in the room, and in a horrifying instant, the unconscious body in the cage is lifted up, electricity sparking from the bars and the brothers' teeth. An unearthly howl wrenches the air, pain and rage and an almost tangible loss in the inhuman voice, and the werewolf seems to split open and spit out the bruised, sleeping boy it kept inside, vanishing into the fading night with a terrible, violent snarl.  
  
Sam breathes a sigh of relief. They wrap Jason up and turn off the camera, then Sam performs a spell he found in their Dad's journal. Afterwards, they wordlessly pack away their guns and bunk down to sleep on the floor of the shed. Sam's not quite sure he's even the same person he was when this seemingly endless night started, but he's so exhausted that he falls asleep as soon as his head meets his makeshift pillow.  
  
*-*  
  
Jason's unexpectedly stoic when they show him the video. He looks so exhausted and battered that Sam guesses he's incapable of deeper emotion right now.   
  
He looks at them, eyes dull with pain from the shoulder wound. "What're you going to do to me now?"  
  
Dean sits on a chair next to the bed they brought Jason to once he woke up. "That depends entirely on you. We showed you the truth. You're getting one chance to do this right. Lock yourself up on full moon, be careful not to hurt anyone else, and we do nothing. Be careless, hurt somebody, and we'll come back to kill you." Dean leans in. "And believe me, we'll know. And we'll find you."  
  
Jason is pale, exhausted, but there's resolve in his eyes. "You won't have to."  
  
Sam smiles at him tightly from where he's leaning near the door. "We really hope so."  
  
Dean nods, and gets up. "Take care, Jason."  
  
Jason looks from Sam to Dean and back. "Thank you," he whispers.   
  
Sam and Dean nod grimly and leave Jason alone with his tragedy.  
  
"You know," Sam says when they get into the Impala, "I think we're pretty lucky compared to some people."  
  
Dean snorts and wordlessly starts the car.  
  
*-*  
  
They've been driving for hours, and they're both exhausted, but they wanted to bring a bit of distance between themselves and Jason. "You sure the spell will work?" Dean asks.  
  
"Definitely. If he kills again, we'll know. The spell will bring it to our attention somehow. You know how these things work," Sam answers, bone-deeply sure that he's right.  
  
Dean nods. "Right, let's find a motel. That was the longest fucking night ever."  
  
Sam can only agree.  
  
*-*  
  
He wakes up with Dean in his bed. It's past midnight. The bedside lamp is on and Dean looks pale and a bit nervous, something Sam's not used to. Their eyes meet and it's clear that Dean wants something but doesn't know how to ask.   
  
Sam threads fingers through Dean's hair and holds him still while he kisses him, long, deeply.  
  
Dean looks dazed when Sam draws back. "Look," he whispers, "about some of the things I said last night..."  
  
Sam stops him with a finger over his lips. "Please. No chick flick moments."  
  
Dean smiles. "What've you done to my brother, body-snatcher?"  
  
Sam gently pushes Dean to his back. "Just shut up."  
  
Dean looks at the bedside lamp, a question in his gaze, and Sam shakes his head. "The light stays on."  
  
Dean looks up at him, and Sam knows that they're both aware of the difference between truce and peace, and that neither of them cares very much now. Finally Dean smiles. "I can live with that," he says, and Sam knows he means a lot more than the light. He pulls Sam down for a kiss that makes it clear that Sam will have to work hard if he wants to stay on top. Sam has every intention of doing so.  
  
  
  
  
end  
 


End file.
